


White Flag

by narcissablaxk



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Canon Typical Violence, Canon Universe, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mention of Lee/Ed, Nygmobblepot, Oswald gets a boyfriend that isn't Ed, Zsaszlepot, brief mention - Freeform, escaping Arkham
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-08 13:16:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14106207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narcissablaxk/pseuds/narcissablaxk
Summary: The Riddler convinces Edward to break Oswald out of prison, but why, he's not sure. Oswald and Victor try to take back Gotham from Sofia while Edward tries to find where he fits in. Unfortunately, the Riddler has plans that Ed isn't fond of, but Oswald is the only one who can make him whole.Title based on "White Flag," by Bishop Briggs.





	1. Chapter 1

Sleep came upon Oswald at inconvenient times when he was in Arkham. There were no windows with which to gauge time, and no one bothered to tell him when he was supposed to be asleep. The lights always seemed perpetually off here, and the sound of the inmates never ceased; the players just shifted. At weird moments, when he was starting to drift off, he thought he could hear Jerome’s voice, just on the other side of his ear. 

It would jerk him awake like someone had doused him with cold water, and he would sit there in the dark, listening to the screams for hours after that, his eyes itching to close. 

When he did dream, he dreamed of Edward. 

He wished he dreamed of Edward in a rose-colored way, so at least in his dreams, Edward loved him back and they could be happy. But his dreams were a repeat of the docks, the piercing burn of the bullet in his belly, Edward’s hand, scrabbling at his chest to clench tight around his shirt before he shoved him over the edge and into the icy water below. 

He dreamed of Edward, full of rage and grief, screaming Isabella’s name, storming through the mansion, the place that housed their best memories. He dreamed of him breaking the mirrors, tearing the suits apart, burning Oswald’s campaign posters. He watched him, helplessly, as he destroyed their entire life together. 

Sometimes, if Oswald was lucky, Ed would talk to him. Once, he whirled on Oswald so quickly Oswald took a step back. He bore down on him the same way he had done in that empty warehouse and spat, “You are incapable of love.” 

He would jolt awake after Ed spoke to him, like clockwork. He would never go back to sleep after that. He would sit there, in the dark, and let Ed’s words wash over him like a tidal wave. Perhaps this was his penance, he justified. 

“You have a visitor,” Oswald wasn’t sure how long the guard had been standing there, or if he had even been awake before this moment. Everything here was such a blur, a constant mistake, that even as he stood up obediently, he was sure he was still dreaming. 

“Oswald.” 

Surely he was dreaming. Edward was sitting at the table, hair combed and slick, his green suit impeccable, his black bowler hat resting comfortably on the table. He looked more mayor than Oswald ever did, and certainly more put together than he had since he…defrosted. He surveyed Oswald with a hint of a smile on his face, though whether it was mocking or sincere, Oswald couldn’t tell. He didn’t have the strength to decipher anything anymore. 

“Did you solve the riddle?” Ed asked, leaning forward expectantly. Oswald collapsed into the chair, trying to stretch out his stiff muscles. 

“I believe so.” 

Ed’s grin widened. “And?” 

Oswald hesitated. “If I say your….your name, you promise you’re going to get me out of here?” He cast a glance over his shoulder to make sure they weren’t being listened to. Ed followed the trajectory of his gaze and returned his eyes when Oswald turned back to him. There was barely contained glee there, an emotion that only confirmed what Oswald suspected. Ed wanted him to call him “The Riddler.” Oswald presumed he was the only one who still refused to say it. 

“Don’t you trust me?” he asked, his voice just a tad deeper than before. Oswald furrowed his brows, completely confused. Of course he didn’t trust Ed, just like Ed didn’t trust him. 

“I’ve done terrible things to you,” he said, hoping that would suffice as an answer. Ed nodded, the movement so reminiscent of their time together, when they had been close, that Oswald found himself leaning forward, hoping to catch another glimpse of the old Ed. 

“And I to you.” For a moment, the mask of smug satisfaction dropped away to something much more melancholic. Before Oswald could comment on it, the confident gaze was back. “Tell me, what good is a rival if he’s locked away?” 

“Is this another riddle?” Oswald asked, exasperated. 

“Certainly not.” Ed leaned back in his chair, the picture of calm collectedness, and surveyed Oswald critically. “This place is not good for you, Oswald.” 

Oswald was so struck by the sentiment, and its implications, that he struggled to answer. There was no logical reason that Ed would care about whether or not Arkham was good for him, and Ed was nothing if not logical. As much as it ached to hear that someone saw how he was wasting away in here, that someone cared enough to notice, Oswald knew it was a lie. 

“So that’s why you’re here,” he said simply. “Can’t stomach being on the outside without a worthy opponent?” As much as he didn’t want it to, the idea grated. Again, Oswald was going to be saved just to stroke someone else’s ego. Despite the obvious necessity of his own rescue, he was getting tired of being another weight on someone else’s scale. 

“I suppose,” Ed said with a shrug. He opened his mouth like he was going to say something more, but Oswald cut him off, slamming his hands on the flimsy table that separated the two of them. Ed flinched, the confidence momentarily shaken out of his countenance. 

“Well, too bad,” Oswald spat. “I’m not going to say your stupid name. If that’s all you came for, you can go. Guard!” He could just barely see the faceless guard that had collected him moving toward the gate, Oswald’s shackles ready in his hands. It was agony, knowing that he was going back to those, and would be shackled for the foreseeable future. 

“Oswald –” he was standing now, in an aggressive enough stance that the guard stalled, his hand on the frame of the door. Oswald looked up at him, so very much the Riddler, and still so very much his Ed, angry and trembling and somehow still vulnerable. 

But Ed would never be his Ed again. He was the Riddler now. 

“I’m not calling you by that ridiculous name, and I’m certainly not going to let you break me out of Arkham just so I’m easier to kill. Because that’s what your little dark side is telling you, isn’t it? That’s how you’re justifying spending this much time on your mortal enemy?” 

He stayed sitting, knowing that not matching Ed’s posture would irk him. He could see the vexation in the little lines of the other man’s brow. But before he could truly revel in them, in the satisfaction that he still knew him best, the furrows were gone, and Ed looked troubled, and a little disappointed.

“I guess you didn’t unravel the riddle after all.” 

***

I guess you didn’t unravel the riddle after all. 

The words were carried on a breath, a much softer sound than any word Ed screamed at Oswald in his dreams, but they were just as terrifying as the rest. If Oswald didn’t decipher the riddle correctly, did he really know Ed as well as he thought? The idea that Ed had somehow adapted, shifted, while Oswald was in prison was so foreign he didn’t quite know what to do with it. 

“What is the answer?” he said, hoping that Dream Ed would hear him, would answer him. But Ed did not, and he continued down the hall of the mansion, the same place he exited every night just before Oswald woke up. 

Just leave me here, Oswald pleaded, as if that could stop him from waking. At least here, we’re together. 

“Wakey, wakey, Pengy,” Jerome’s voice was soft, silky, but Oswald jolted upward just the same. He was on the other side of the bars, his scarred face pressing in as far as it would go. The result was slightly stretched eyes, and an even wider, more terrifying smile. 

Oswald didn’t respond, but made sure Jerome could see his opened eyes. It wounded his pride to talk to him at all, but if he didn’t at least acknowledge him, there would be more bruises later. 

“See you soon,” was all he said, holding the “s” sound just long enough to make Oswald squirm. The looming inevitability of lunch was suddenly repugnant. “You and I have some…business to discuss.” 

Oswald considered feigning sick to get out of lunch; perhaps if he looked ill enough, one of the guards could be persuaded to take him to the infirmary for a few hours. The cold, sterile infirmary, with the rough nurses and lackluster attention was preferable than being humiliated in front of everyone again. 

What was it that Jerome wanted from him? Another mime performance? Or was this another half-baked scheme to escape, to force Oswald into his little gang of textbook psychopaths? Both options were nightmarish. To escape with Jerome meant signing over is sovereignty to another person, to putting Martin’s life in Jerome’s hands. He wasn’t the boy’s father, but he was the closest thing; he would not endanger him just to be selfish.

He wished again to be asleep. 

Lunch was only a few blinks away, and before Oswald had enough time to prepare himself, he was sitting at his usual table, the sloppy piles of food melting in front of him, untouched, and waited, with bated breath, for Jerome. He didn’t bother to look for him; the frantic jerks of his head would only amuse Jerome, and Oswald preferred surprise to giving that maniac any form of gratification. 

“I heard you had a visitor,” there he was, suddenly, his breath at Oswald’s ear. Oswald stifled a shiver. “Who was it?” 

“Ed Nygma,” Oswald answered dully with a shrug. “What does it matter?” 

Jerome’s hand landed on the back of his neck tight, insistent. “You’re not planning on leaving without me, are you, Pengy?” he whispered, the sound shuddering over the shell of his ear. “I would hate to be left behind by my dear friend.” 

“I’m not escaping, if that’s what you think,” Oswald muttered, finally picking up his spoon and jabbing at one of the piles of food absently. Jerome paused, tilting his chin toward Oswald, even closer. This time, Oswald couldn’t hide the grimace and pulled away from him. Jerome tightened his hold on the back of his neck and jerked him back, satisfaction radiating off of him.

He was so close, Oswald could feel his smile. “Good. But…just in case –”

As he registered that there was any contradiction, Jerome’s hand caught the back of his head, and he slammed into the table, face-first, right into the food he wasn’t planning on eating. With a strangled yell that didn’t sound like his own voice, he shoved the tray away from him, his eyes searching for a guard. He managed to turn over, toward his assailant, in time to dodge the next hit, but Jerome had friends here, and the moment they saw their leader engaged in any sort of altercation, they ran to assist. 

They weren’t to hit Oswald, but they were allowed to jeer, cheer, chant, and hold Oswald up if he couldn’t stand on his own. 

He feared it would soon come to that as he struggled to stand, his head swimming. 

“You’re not going anywhere, Penguin,” Jerome announced, his smile stretched far enough that it made Oswald nauseous, and he slipped, falling back into his seat against his will.

Oswald had to brace himself against the table to stand up straight; not eating had robbed him of his strength, and the continued beatings didn’t help. Still, he stood on shaky legs, hands up to protect his already bleeding face. 

He had already resolved not to hit Jerome, if only so the fight would be over that much faster. But as Jerome swung, over-advertising his next move (such a drama queen, Oswald thought bitterly), he saw an opening, and took it instinctively. His fist landed easily on Jerome’s nose before Jerome’s swing could land, and the man laughed as he stumbled backward. 

“Came to play, did you?” he laughed, the sound shrill and nightmarish. Oswald shrugged, touching his face experimentally, checking for new places that he could be bleeding. 

They went on in the same vein for a few more minutes before the guards could stop them. By the time they were separated, Oswald’s eye was so swollen, he could barely see, and his bad leg was in agony. He supposed that was a good thing; he was tired of looking at everyone, tired of seeing anything at all. 

They let him sleep that night in the infirmary. 

It was supposed to feel like a treat, but Oswald couldn’t sleep, even on the softest bed he’d been on in months, even with decent food, even with the soft touch of the nurse whose name he didn’t remember. How long until he was back in his cell, back in that rec room with Jerome? How long before his beating went too far? 

It was only a matter of time. 

It took hours for him to slip into a restless sleep, but even in his dreams, he knew something was wrong. 

He was in the mansion again, but Edward was sitting on the couch, staring into the fire. Oswald limped into the room, his leg in the same amount of pain as in real life. He stood at Edward’s shoulder for a moment. He knew how his dreams went; he wasn’t welcome with Edward, so there was no point in sitting beside him. There was no reprieve, not even in his dreams. 

“I suppose you haven’t figured it out yet,” Ed’s voice was soft, almost sad. 

Oswald didn’t answer. 

“Oswald, think about someone other than yourself,” Ed turned toward him, his hands on the back of the couch, one of them tantalizingly close to Oswald’s own. “Think about what you did, and who you did it to.” 

“You,” Oswald breathed. “I did it to you.” 

“Indirectly,” Ed agreed, standing and coming around the couch to stand at Oswald’s side. He turned his gaze back to the fire. “But I’m not the only one you should apologize to.” 

There was no one else whose opinion mattered, Oswald thought. There was no one else to apologize to if Ed didn’t forgive him. He certainly wasn’t going to apologize to –

He froze, his breath leaving his lungs in a rush. The answer was so simple, so incredibly easy, that Oswald was furious that he missed it. He turned toward Ed, who was staring down at him with soft eyes, the same gaze he used to fix on Oswald when he was mayor. 

He woke with a gasp, yanking at the IV in his hand at the suddenness of his movement. 

“Good, you’re awake,” the voice was just as soft as it was in his dreams. 

“Oh God, I’m still dreaming,” Oswald groaned. 

“Certainly not,” Ed leaned forward in the chair, resting his chin on his hands. “I heard you were injured. This is an opportunity I cannot pass up.” 

Oswald squinted through the darkness to find Ed’s outline, sitting in the chair usually occupied by the nurse. “Opportunity for what?” 

“Come now,” Ed waved him off dismissively. “Plenty of time for that.” He stood from his seat and crossed to Oswald’s bedside. “Have you thought of the answer?” he asked. 

“You can’t break me out,” Oswald said instead. “I – if you do, something bad will happen to someone I care about.” 

Ed raised his eyebrows, taking a step away from Oswald’s bed. “Someone you care about?” he repeated. 

“The answer is Isabella, isn’t it?” Oswald said, not bothering to listen to Ed’s muttered words. “You wanted me to apologize for Isabella.” 

Ed went very still, his hat pulled so low over his eyes, Oswald couldn’t make out his expression. He worried, for a moment, that he said the wrong thing, that Ed was finally going to kill him for what he did to her. But after a moment, and a long, shuddering breath from Edward, he tilted his chin up. 

“That’s the first time you’ve ever said her name correctly,” Ed said simply. 

“And that’s the answer,” Oswald replied flatly. 

“Good enough for me,” Ed shrugged, reaching for the IV in Oswald’s hand and yanking it free. “Now, it’s time for me to deliver on my end of the bargain.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed breaks Oswald out of Arkham, but Oswald is in worse shape than either of them predicted. Ed struggles to not give a name to his feelings for Oswald.

Taking the IV out of Oswald’s hand was simple; figuring out exactly how badly he was injured was an altogether different battle. His left eye was still swollen shut, his cheekbone a smattering of watercolor bruises. He winced as Ed helped him sit up, his face screwed up in pain the more he moved. Ed resisted asking questions about the extent of the injuries, despite his instinctive medical training. He didn’t want Oswald to think he cared too much lest he use that against him later.

“Can you walk?” Ed asked instead, his whisper just barely fluttering Oswald’s disheveled hair, slightly longer than usual from his stint in prison. Oswald jerked away, goosebumps rising on his flesh. 

He watched as Oswald tried to push himself to the edge of the bed himself, a smattering of pained expletives falling out of his mouth as he did. After a few moments of struggle, he sagged against the mattress.“If it was an integral part of your escape plan, I would rethink it,” he replied, putting his good foot experimentally on the floor. Ed offered his former friend his hand, but Oswald ignored it.

“If you’re insistent on getting me out of here right now –” he began instead.

“I am –”

“Then I would find a wheelchair,” Oswald admitted. “and a few guns.”

Ed, who had already released Oswald to track down the aforementioned wheelchair, paused in the doorway. “Why guns?” he asked, his hand instinctively falling to the one at his hip. Oswald didn’t answer, so he pressed wryly, “So desperate to use one on me already?” 

He made sure his voice was light, sarcastic, but Oswald rolled his eyes so hard, his shoulders moved with it. “I have someone to find when I get out.”

There it was again, the hedging. So there was someone on the outside that Oswald cared about enough that he hadn’t tried to escape, that he almost turned Ed away. Someone Oswald presumably loved more than he loved Ed. Ed moved logically through conclusions as he waited for Oswald to elaborate. Oswald had never been able to refuse him anything before; a side-effect of love, he had claimed. He had been beaten within an inch of his life, with the promise of more beatings, based on the bruises of various ages splattered all over is body. Yet, he still resisted escaping this prison because it would affect the welfare of someone outside of Arkham. Someone who wasn’t Ed. 

He surveyed Oswald’s face in the dim lighting, trying to find a tell in his face. Oswald met his gaze unflinchingly. Did he know that he was driving Ed mad with his silence? Did he know him so well that the effect of an unanswered question would bring about an irritating itch he could not scratch? 

“Who is it?” Ed finally asked, curiosity winning out. 

Oswald sighed. “Just find the damn wheelchair,” he replied. “We don’t have time to talk about it.” 

Ed obligingly moved toward the door, but stopped just outside. “Is it Gordon?” he guessed. 

Oswald laughed weakly, still trying to put manage standing without help. “You think I care about -” he groaned in pain, leaning back more fully against the bed, _“Jim Gordon?”_

“Who is it, then?” Ed badgered, stepping back into the room. “Zsasz?” 

“Just get the damn wheelchair,” Oswald was practically wheezing now, his breath labored and shallow. “You’re going to get us caught.” 

_He’s right,_ the Riddler whispered conspiratorially. _Get the damn wheelchair, ask about his personal life after._

Ed wracked his mind for people Oswald could mean. He knew the man was obsessed with Jim Gordon more than he had any right to be, but Jim Gordon was safe and sound at the GCPD. Besides, Jimbo could take care of himself. Zsasz was his right hand while Ed had been frozen, but again there was the instance of a man who could take care of himself. 

Could the person Oswald wanted to protect be a woman? He had never been particularly attached to women, with the exception of his mother. He remembered, vaguely, a short-lived partnership with Ivy Pepper, but their contact was limited. 

He had heard rumors of Sofia Falcone, but their animosity prior to his arrest made it clear that he would rejoice if she were in danger.

The prize of his search was in a far corner, rusted and a little dusty; Ed grabbed it and trotted back to Oswald, his eyes systematically searching for any threat. But the place was empty except for the one nurse that Ed had already knocked out. She would come to in a few hours, disoriented but otherwise unharmed. 

Still, the question of Oswald’s secret lingered, and though Ed shoved it back to focus on the task at hand, the Riddler had no such hang-ups. 

_Jealous, are we, Eddie?_ He asked with a chuckle. 

“No, I’m not,” Ed muttered, his grip on the wheelchair tightening. 

The Riddler just tutted at him and said nothing more, focusing on the more pertinent issue of getting Oswald into the wheelchair. The man was still maddeningly refusing to let Ed touch him. Ed was forced to watch as Oswald maneuvered is way into the wheelchair, wincing in pain. A slip of the hand almost sent him tumbling onto the floor, and without thinking, Ed swooped in and caught him around the arms and gently guided him into the chair. 

Oswald didn’t say anything to the physical contact, but rubbed his arms self-consciously once he was seated securely in the chair, averting his gaze. The Riddler was supremely interested in that particular behavior, but Ed was still in control, so his mind could do nothing but dwell absently on it while he wheeled Oswald down the hallway to the elevator. 

***

The first gust of fresh air that hit Oswald’s face did him in. Almost immediately, he was crying without really feeling it, but the tears rolling down his face were undeniable. He tried to push it down, if not only for the sake of his pride, then for his swollen eye, but he was powerless to halt the overwhelming relief he felt, staring out into open space, unencumbered by fences, by guards, by borders.

He could go anywhere he wanted.

Ed wheeled the chair toward a car, parked in a dark corner of the loading docks, completely unnoticed. Oswald could feel Ed’s torso moving with his paranoid movements, checking to see if they had been detected, if they were being followed. Oswald wanted to help, but the pain in his abdomen, in his head, in his leg, was radiating out like seismic waves, and he could think of little else.

Ed had to help him into the car, his hand tight in Oswald’s own. Comfort washed over him at the most basic physical contact, and he found himself holding almost desperately to his hand even after he was settled into the car.

“You have to take me to him,” he blurted suddenly, the words barely registering in his mind before they were flying out of his mouth. Ed gave him that look again, one that he couldn’t quite pinpoint, something cold and distant and probing. Oswald filed it away to think about when he could; right now, Martin was the most important thing.

Pain washed over him again, this time a tsunami, and he couldn’t hide the squirm pain brought about. As it receded, it left him weak and unmoored, barely conscious. He knew, absently, that he had overexerted himself, moved too much when he shouldn’t have moved at all.

“Take you to whom, Oswald?” Ed’s voice was lower than usual, deep and gruff and it settled on his chest like a comforting weight.

Oswald hesitated. What if Ed wanted to hurt him later? Martin would be the perfect target. He should keep him a secret, save Martin himself. Ed stared down at him, over the rim of his glasses, and Oswald reached up, weakly, to place his hand on his face, thumb brushing just over his cheekbone. How queer, he noted, his thought like a wisp of weak smoke, that his cheekbone could be so severe and yet not cut his thumb as he traced the sharp angle.

He coughed, the movement sending agony through his whole body, and instinctively released Ed’s face to cover his mouth.

“Oh dear,” Ed’s voice was suddenly back to normal, sweet Ed. Oswald followed his gaze and landed on his own hand, splattered with blood. “Oswald, did anyone check you for internal bleeding?” he asked, the words rushed and so fast they couldn’t register in Oswald’s fuzzy head.

“We have to get to him,” Oswald insisted, suddenly feeling like he had to get the message out, just in case.

“You’re bleeding,” Ed said firmly. “We have to get you to a doctor. Everyone else can wait.”

He made to stand, presumably to cross to the driver’s seat, but Oswald caught his hand again. “No,” he insisted firmly. “No, we have to get Martin.”

“Martin,” Ed repeated, testing the name in his mouth, trying to find a connection. Oswald watched his mind work, as if watching a silent movie on a distant screen. Ed seemed to be moving away from him, his voice coming from down a long hallway.

“Oswald,” Ed’s voice was suddenly loud and then too quiet again. “Oswald, _stay with me.”_

He drifted away on the sound of his voice.

***

The sound of the clinic door smashing open was almost enough to startle Lee into dropping her coffee cup; she gasped, her hand flying to rest over her heart, and turned to give Ed a stern talking-to about slamming doors, but the words died on her lips. 

Ed was carrying the Penguin, still in his Arkham stripes, blood staining his mouth. Gently, he laid him out on the table usually reserved for sick children and adults with battered faces from Fight Night. 

_“Edward!”_

“Something’s wrong, he’s bleeding internally, I don’t know where,” Ed was babbling, his hands running repeatedly through his hair; the brown locks held the tracks he had already made. “You have to fix him.” 

She turned back to Oswald for a moment before turning back to Ed. “I’m not a surgeon,” she protested. “If he’s bleeding, he needs to go to a hospital.” 

“They’ll send him back to Arkham,” Ed shook his head frantically. “I can’t do that to him.” 

Lee, resigned, was already reaching for her stethoscope and moving toward the unmoving Penguin. Despite her protestations, she couldn’t just let the man die on her table. Despite her own personal feelings for Oswald, Ed was a friend, and he looked ready to beg. She narrowed her eyes in his direction before turning to Oswald.

“Why did you break him out in the first place?” she asked shrewdly, her hands moving to unbutton the uniform. “Because I’m assuming you didn’t just find him wandering around on the street.” 

Edward was saved from answering when Lee peeled back the top of Oswald’s Arkham uniform, revealing deep bruises over Oswald’s ribs and abdomen, a sure sign of internal bleeding.

 _“Shit,”_ he muttered. “Shit shit shit.” 

“You need to get out of here,” Lee demanded. “I can’t do this with you watching. Send Grundy over here, I’ll need an extra pair of hands.” 

“I’m much better suited -” 

“You think you can watch me open Penguin?” she asked sharply. Ed’s eyes flickered down to Oswald for a moment before coming back up to Lee, chagrined. 

“I can help -”

“You’re a mess,” Lee fixed him with that same stubborn gaze he was so used to seeing. “Go occupy yourself doing something else. I will call you when he’s stable.” 

Ed stepped closer to her, to Oswald. “But he will be? Stable?” 

“I don’t know,” Lee admitted quietly. “I’ll do everything I can.” 

***

Ed stared at the steering wheel of the stolen car, letting his mind run rampant. What could he do to occupy himself while Oswald fought for his life? The thought alone, once coherent, was repugnant. How could he do anything but be by his side, but be there when he woke up? But no, Oswald was still not his friend, but another soul tethered irrevocably to his. That did not mean he had to be so particularly attached. 

That attachment would only weaken him anyway. 

_What about Martin?_ The Riddler was leaning against the backseat of the car, his jaw and chin visible in the rear view mirror. _Oswald said he needed to save him._

“Why would I want to save some man I don’t know?” Ed asked petulantly. 

The Riddler shrugged smugly. _It would be an opportunity to find out exactly who this Martin fellow is, don’t you think?_

“That’s incredibly immature,” Ed admonished himself. 

_Okay, if you don’t want to think about it like that,_ the Riddler wheedled, _think of it as tying up a loose end that you untied unknowingly. Do you think Oswald will ever forgive you if Martin is killed because you insisted on breaking him out of Arkham?_

“I don’t care about the loose end!” Ed slammed his hands on the steering wheel. “What does it matter if something happens to Martin?” 

_Because you care what Oswald thinks of you._

“No I don’t,” Ed argued, gripping his hair tightly in his fists. “I don’t care.” 

_We care what Oswald thinks of us. Why else did you break him out of Arkham?_ The Riddler’s voice was uncommonly soft. _You had no purpose without your greatest enemy, but he’s not an enemy, is he?_

“Stop it,” Ed groaned, resting his head against the steering wheel. “I don’t want to hear this.” 

_Fine. Then just think of it as a puzzle._

Thinking of it as a puzzle was far more attractive. Ed let his eyes meet his double’s in the rear view mirror and smiled. Yes, a puzzle he could solve. He gripped the key tightly in his hand and started the car.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed tries to track down Martin, but Oswald has a new mission for him: to bring him Victor Zsasz.

Morning came and went, and Ed stayed the same, perched in his car outside Sofia Falcone’s mansion. He and the Riddler existed in a temporary, cautious harmony, the Riddler’s more attuned instincts applicable to the situation. They were in a holding pattern, with both of them holding a tenuous grasp of control, for Oswald’s sake. For Martin’s sake. 

“One of her henchmen has to check up on Martin,” Ed muttered, tapping his fingertips on the steering wheel. “How will we know when to follow one?”

The Riddler, his feet resting on the middle console comfortably, gave him a smug wink. _Oh, we’ll know._

“I suppose you’re going to tell me,” Ed whispered, annoyed. A light rain had just started outside, and soon, he was going to have trouble seeing through the windows without turning on the wipers. Any henchman worth his salt would notice a parked car with a clean windshield in the rain. 

_Think, Eddie,_ the Riddler punctuated each word with a tap on Ed’s shoulder. _What kind of businesses does Sofia Falcone run right now?_

Ed rested his head on the steering wheel, trusting the Riddler to keep an eye out the window. If he focused, he could see the shadow of the front door, the wet street, the wrought iron fence. “All of Penguin’s,” he said leadingly, hoping the Riddler would elaborate on his weak answer. Momentarily, he felt a surge of hatred for Oswald, for his lackluster intelligence. 

_Which means…_

“I don’t know, the club?” Ed was grasping at straws. He knew Oswald’s campaign administration inside and out, but very little of his criminal underworld. He was content to just scrape the surface, see the deals happen, watch Oswald stand tall and proud. That was all he needed. 

_She owns politicians, policemen, criminals, probably drug traffickers,_ the Riddler said, his voice suddenly quiet. _She has other mobsters and assassins on her payroll._

“And?” 

_And –_ the Riddler pushed Ed’s shoulder roughly. _That means most of her little henchmen, her little flying monkeys, are going to be carrying what?_

The answer dawned on him immediately. “Guns.” 

_Guns, yes. But what about if you’re checking on a hostage?_ The Riddler sounded momentarily pleased with Ed, and that praise bolstered him. 

Ed raised his head and glanced back at the Riddler. “The hostage is, presumably, tied up? Restrained?” 

_Unarmed is fine, but yes. So –_

“So you don’t need a gun,” Ed finished proudly. The Riddler grinned and put his feet back up on the console, content that Ed had unpuzzled something. 

_It’s not a perfect system, I’ll admit,_ the Riddler allowed. _But it is somewhere to start._

***

Oswald woke as if from a nightmare. He jerked upright, gasping for air; Lee rushed to his side, her hands on his shoulders to push him back into the bed. His eyes landed on her, confused, unfamiliar. She could just see the stain of remnant blood on the underside of his lip, the lingering reminder of his condition.

“Penguin, it’s me,” she said soothingly. “I need you to lie back, you’re going to hurt yourself.” 

“Where – where am I?” his voice was ragged, like he had a cold, his hand coming up to rest on his throat, where she had intubated him hours before. She winced as he did; the tube was rough, probably the wrong size, but it was all she had.

“Ed brought you here because you were bleeding. You’re in the Narrows,” she wasn’t sure how much he didn’t remember, but he was still looking at her like he didn’t quite recognize her. Chalk that up to the shock or time, but it was unnerving her. She released his shoulders and stepped back, hoping the distance would make it easier. He was still on a lot of pain medications; she could see that he was barely hanging onto consciousness. Out of spite, probably.

“The – the Narrows –” He was trying to sit up again, to move, and again, Lee had to push him back down onto the bed. “Martin. I have to get to Martin.” 

“No, you cannot go anywhere,” she said firmly. “You are bleeding internally. If you try to go somewhere right now, you will die.” 

He didn’t seem to hear her; his eyes were searching his surroundings, trying to ground himself in a place he’d never seen before. Somehow, while she was pushing him back down, he had grabbed hold of her hand, and squeezed tight, so tight she was wincing in pain. The pressure was suddenly gone, and so was his hand. 

His eyes were unfocused, staring up at her and around, and she worried, for a moment, that he was going into shock again. 

“Vic – Victor –”

She groped for his hand again, if only to keep him awake. “What?” His eyes rolled back into his head, and she had to release his hand to grip his face with both hands. “Penguin, what did you say?” 

“I need – I need Zsasz,” he whispered, his lips barely moving. Sweat stood out in a sheen on his forehead. “I need Victor.” 

***

The ringing of the phone startled Ed out of his reverie, the loud jingling just above the volume of annoying and edging toward unbearable. He fumbled for the tiny square thing and flipped it open, noting Lee’s name on the display. 

“Lee,” he said expectantly, feeling the Riddler’s voice rise in his throat. “Is Oswald awake?” 

“He was for a moment, but he’s still heavily medicated,” Lee was firm, business-like. Ed liked her best this way, not when she was soft and empathetic. “He’s asking for Victor Zsasz.” 

_What?_ The Riddler immediately sat forward, his brows furrowed. _Why Zsasz?_

“I don’t know,” Lee admitted, and Ed realized the Riddler had forced the words through his mouth. “But he was insistent. Can you find him and bring him back here?” 

_No,_ the Riddler leaned back in the chair. _Not until Oswald tells us why he wants him._

“Sure,” Ed replied, closing the phone with a snap. The Riddler, behind him, raised both eyebrows but said nothing. Ed reached into the glove compartment, grabbing his pistol, with the opalescent green handle, and slipped it into his waistband. He certainly didn’t want to pull a gun on Victor Zsasz, knowing exactly how that exchange would end. 

But he certainly wasn’t going to walk in there unarmed. 

_We should go back to Oswald,_ the Riddler said firmly as Ed nudged the car door open with his shoulder. The light drizzle landed gently on his shoulders as he stepped fully out of the car, the Riddler immediately beside him. 

“If this is what Oswald wants, we get Zsasz first,” Ed replied, allowing the Riddler momentary and cautious control. He would handle this better. 

The front door was unlocked, probably because whoever was guarding it had seen him coming. A strategic choice, he noted. Two henchmen he didn’t recognize were on him the moment the door opened, reaching for him to check for weapons. Well, that wouldn’t do at all. 

The Riddler pulled the gun, pointing it easily at the closest henchman, shoulders low, back straight. Cocky. “I’m looking for Victor Zsasz. Bring him to me.” 

“We don’t answer to you, freak –” the gunshot was instantaneous, and the man hit the ground hard enough to shake the floorboards, clutching at his knee and howling. 

“Now, I don’t want to ask twice,” the Riddler said sweetly to the other man. 

“I’m right here, Nygma,” Zsasz’s voice was just as calm as always, and Ed saw him clearly, just through the doorway of the den, his gun drawn. Curious, it was a revolver, with only six shots. Old enough to be antique, or sentimental. 

“I have someone who wishes to speak with you,” he replied. “Come with me.” 

“Not gonna happen,” Zsasz said, pulling back the hammer of the revolver. 

Smoothly, confidently, the Riddler lifted the gun, offering his bare palms in a show of peace. Carefully, slowly, he slid the gun back into the waistband of his pants. 

“I come in peace,” he said. 

Zsasz’s gaze fell to the man between them, still holding his knee, a pool of blood spreading beneath him. 

“Oh dear,” Ed said. “I would see a doctor about that.” 

Zsasz snorted a quiet laugh. “Okay, Nygma,” he said, pocketing the revolver under his arm. “Consider my curiosity piqued.” 

***

Ed knew Victor Zsasz. It wasn’t hard to read a man who killed others for a living. He was cold, calculating, a little macabre in his humor. It was easy to predict how a man like that would respond to things, how he would react to trauma. It wouldn’t faze him, at least, not openly. He handled things like feelings privately, if he ever did. The man lacked empathy; he was a sociopath. 

Ed was also very, very wrong. 

Zsasz caught sight of Oswald the moment Ed opened the door, and rushed to his side. “Boss,” he breathed, so quiet Ed almost missed it. “Boss, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, who did this to you?” 

The Riddler clenched his jaw, a deep ache radiating in Ed’s chest. 

Oswald couldn’t seem to speak; he was clutching at Zsasz’s wrist, then his hands. Ed watched them cling to each other, Zsasz pouring apologies from his lips. 

“She got to me, Boss, she lied to me, and I let her. I’m so sorry. I should have protected you,” he was practically whispering them into Oswald’s ear now. Ed felt the Riddler looming over him, asking to take over, asking to help. He held him back. 

He would give nothing more than to be by Oswald’s side, checking his wounds, making sure he was safe. At the same time, he couldn’t force himself to move, couldn’t bring himself to break whatever spell was being woven. 

“I know, Victor,” Oswald’s voice was so broken, so relieved to see him. Nothing like the coldness he’d given Ed. 

Ed was pretty sure he was going to throw up. 

He watched as Oswald’s hand, connected to an IV, settled on Zsasz’s cheek, thumb brushing gently over his bottom lip. With a shaky breath, Ed let the Riddler lead him from the room. 

***

Oswald let the warmth of Victor’s hand in his lull him, clinging to him like he was afraid to drift away again. He felt Victor press a kiss to his forehead. It had been so long since he’d had any form of physical affection that didn’t feel stolen or calculated that he was sure he was going to weep. 

Victor wouldn’t judge him. 

“What do you need me to do, Boss?” Victor asked, his lips moving against Oswald’s thumb. “I can get to Sofia today if you need me to.” 

“No, not Sofia yet,” Oswald let his hand fall from Victor’s face, using both hands to hold one of Victor’s own. “I need Martin. We have to make sure he’s safe.” 

Victor, who had pulled back enough to see Oswald’s face clearly, nodded, his eyes locked on Oswald’s with that same unapologetic intensity that Oswald had become accustomed to. “Martin first. Then Sofia.” 

“Then we plan for Sofia,” Oswald corrected him gently. 

“She told me you killed Falcone,” Victor said, his voice far less strong than Oswald was used to. 

Oswald closed his eyes, feeling the pain medication start to wear off. “I know she did, Victor.” 

“But you didn’t.” 

“Take Edward with you to get Martin, please,” Oswald said quietly, trying to articulate through the pain that was starting to break through the barrier medication had created. “And send Doctor Thompkins to me, please.” 

He could hear Victor moving toward the door. “I missed you, Oswald.” 

“Glad to be back, Victor.” 

***

“I missed you, Oswald.” 

_What the hell is going on?_ The Riddle was practically vibrating with rage, his bowler hat abandoned and clenched in his fists. _Victor Zsasz is a murdering sociopath. Oswald cannot be…involved with a man like that._

“It seems he can,” Ed replied dryly. 

He had never heard Zsasz use Oswald’s first name before. The sheer jarring sound of it coming out of his mouth sent a wave of resignation through him. If Zsasz was close enough to Oswald to call him by his first name, a name usually used by only Ed himself – 

He didn’t want to think about it. 

_Think about it,_ the Riddler demanded. _It bothers you, doesn’t it?_

“It doesn’t bother me.” 

The Riddler dropped his tense, jaw-clenched expression in favor of his telltale smirk. _Doesn’t it, Eddie? If it bothers me, and it_ certainly does, _then it bothers you._

“There’s nothing to be done,” Ed remarked, feeling the Riddler’s rage, his hurt, bleed into him. He inhaled sharply through his nose. “Nothing to be done.” 

_He told you he loved you, acted like he would only love you, and now he’s showing affection to Zsasz? The same affection he used to show to you. You want me to believe that you’re completely unbothered. Unfazed. Unmoved._

“Enough with the synonyms,” Ed snapped. “Oswald is at perfect liberty to do whatever he likes with whomever he likes. It’s not my business.” 

_It is your business, Eddie. Because you love him._

“No, I don’t,” Ed snarled, turning back to his doppelgänger. “I already told you –”

_You love the Doc, sure, I’m sure you think so. Because she’s pretty and she didn’t treat you like dirt? She’s asking you to hide who you are because she likes only half of you. I will not allow you to bury who you really are._

“You have no say!” Ed shouted, feeling his hands rise to pull at his own hair. “You are not me. I am not you.” 

_You’re right. We’re one and the same._

“Nygma?” Victor’s voice was back to normal. “Boss wants us to retrieve Martin together. I’ll take you to him.” 

Ed turned back toward the Riddler, who shrugged. “Fine.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zsasz and Nygma retrieve Martin to deliver him to his loving father.

The rain outside had only gotten heavier; Ed felt the damp shoulders of his coat press into his shoulders as the droplets added weight. He quickly folded himself into the passenger seat of the car, Zsasz’s hand already on the driver’s side handle. 

“Where are we going?” he muttered as Zsasz pulled away from the street. Zsasz gave him a half-smile, just the corner of his lip, and shrugged, as if Ed was asking him about something simple, like the weather. 

“We’re going to find Martin,” he replied, as if that actually provided Ed any pertinent information. Ed sighed heavily and sat back in the seat, content to spend the rest of the ride in complete silence. The less he heard Zsasz speak, the better. 

_You could ask him about Oswald,_ the Riddler said pointedly from the backseat. Ed didn’t answer. 

“Who is Martin?” he felt the words leave his mouth unprompted. Zsasz glanced at him for a moment, long enough for Ed to feel like he should definitely keep his eyes on the road, before he turned back and shrugged again. This nonchalance was starting to truly grate. 

“Boss didn’t tell you?” 

They were back to “Boss” again, were they? The Riddler, in the backseat, bristled, but Ed stayed still. 

“Obviously not.” 

Zsasz chuckled. “No need to get twitchy, Nygma, it’s just a question.” He took a sharp left, and Ed had to grab onto the bar at the top of the door. “Martin is his son.” 

The Riddler leaned forward in the backseat, his hands tight around Ed’s shoulders, so tight it was painful. _What?_ His voice was sharp, gruff. _Oswald has no son._

“I don’t think he’s gotten the paperwork done yet,” Zsasz continued, “But he treats Martin like his son, so it’s only a matter of time.” 

“I - I didn’t - he never said -”

“Sofia has been using that kid as a chess piece since she found out about him,” Zsasz added. “I don’t think he’s been keen to mention him since.” 

_But he could have told us,_ the Riddler insisted petulantly. _He could have trusted us._

Ed knew that was a lie, borne out of pride and hurt. He let it slide, hoping Zsasz would keep talking, would keep spilling these close-held secrets of Oswald’s. If he couldn’t get them from Oswald, perhaps he could get them from Zsasz. 

“Martin is a good kid,” Zsasz said wistfully. “He really helped Oswald love again.” 

There was something in that sentence that he didn’t say, an unmentioned accusation, but Ed didn’t have the fortitude to comment on it. He was so tired of mapping their indiscretions, their betrayals, their everything. He didn’t ask any more questions, just sat back and let the Riddler direct his thoughts. Perhaps it would be easier this way. 

_After Isabella, why would Oswald tell us anything about a child?_ The Riddler reasoned. _It makes sense, strategically, why he would keep this kid a secret. But Oswald? A parent? He doesn’t like children, children certainly don’t like him._

_How much changed while we were on ice?_

“Nygma, while we’re here, let me be very clear,” Zsasz’s voice shook him out of his internal spiral. “I know that you are the one who broke Oswald out of Arkham. I am grateful that he has a friend in you.” 

“It was nothing -” Ed shook his head, trying to shake Zsasz’s mention of Oswald’s first name from his mind, but it was stuck there, relentless. 

“But I also know that you’re a smart man. Smart enough to have some long con planned to get revenge on him. So if that really is your plan, I would cut that short right now. Because if you hurt Oswald again - physically, emotionally, I don’t care - you know what I can do to you.” 

“I’m very aware,” Ed snapped. 

“Good,” Zsasz smiled, patting Ed on the thigh. He jerked his leg away, no longer caring if it made him look jumpy or resentful. “Now, Sofia has Martin in an apartment near her little home base, just in case. There’s three guys in there, plus the boy. Which means if we take too long, Sofia could send backup. So no dawdling, got it?” 

Ed turned toward him, the shift in Zsasz’s demeanor giving him whiplash. How quickly could the man go from threatening his life to discussing their next move? How unbothered, how unflappable was he? 

_Perhaps that’s what Oswald likes about him._

“Nygma, are you even listening to me?” Zsasz asked, turning his eyes once again from the road to Ed. He cleared his throat and nodded. 

“You’re okay with that?” Zsasz asked. 

“Uh…”

“I’m going to go in first because they know me,” Zsasz repeated impatiently. “I will find Martin and make sure he’s safe. Once I can ensure he’s safe, I will call for you. You will get Martin out of the building, and I will take care of the men.” 

He said it in a tone that booked no argument. Ed had nothing to say anyway. 

***

The building was run down, so completely nondescript that Edward had walked by it his whole life and never really noticed it. Momentarily, he was overtaken with begrudging respect for Sofia. She had an eye for this, truly. Zsasz moved toward the door, his gun still comfortably holstered. Ed watched it closely as he followed him up to the sixth floor, always staying a floor below him to avoid being seen. 

Zsasz didn’t even bother to spare him a glance before he knocked nonchalantly on the door to a numberless apartment, and Ed realized he had no idea what his signal was supposed to be. How would he know to burst in and save Martin? 

The door was sliding open, and it was too late to ask. 

_You could always make yourself the hero and go in there first, guns blazing,_ the Riddler pointed out. _Oswald would be proud._

“And he would be furious if that boy died because of our ego,” Ed whispered. 

_Who cares about a kid?_

“Oswald does,” Ed snapped. “So we do too.”

_So you’re going to let Zsasz go in there and take all the glory? Take all of Oswald’s appreciation?_

“Stop,” Ed demanded. “It doesn’t matter -”

_We’re going._

He blinked and suddenly he was in the doorway of the apartment, taking in the acrid smell of stale cigarettes, something that was probably mold, and Zsasz was turning halfway back to him, his eyes wide with a look that clearly said what the fuck are you doing? Ed ignored him, feeling his hands, as though pushed by a phantom partner, reaching for his gun. 

One of the men, a portly bald man, fell before Ed even realized he was pulling the trigger. Zsasz rolled his eyes and leisurely pulled his own weapon, turning it on the man closest to him and tilted his head apologetically. 

“The boy,” he said firmly. 

Ed paused, his gun raised in the direction of the third man, who was halfway out of the room, listening to the man holding his ground. The silence was maddening, just loud enough to amplify the ringing remnants of the gunshot in his ears. 

_Follow the third man,_ the Riddler prompted. 

Ed obeyed, grabbing the man by the collar of his shirt and pushing him toward his preferred escape route. The living room was connected to a kitchen, with nowhere to hide, but with a firm jostle of his hostage, the man led him down a hallway to a locked door. 

“Open it,” he demanded, pressing the gun to the back of the man’s neck. He heard rather than saw the man fumble with the keys on his belt, the anxiety fueling the power he felt. It was nice, inspiring fear this way. He missed it. 

“If only I had a use for you,” he said softly to the man as the door swung open. 

The gunshot rattled through his skull, and the man fell heavily forward, the splatter of his blood and brains flying long after he fell. The sound of his body slamming into the floorboards startled a lump of wrinkled clothing in the corner, with a notepad around its neck. 

_This must be Martin,_ the Riddler noted. 

He offered the boy his hand, at a loss for what else to do. The boy looked to be...well, he couldn’t age children. But he looked frightened, and he supposed that fear overruled age. The boy recoiled sharply away from his hand, his eyes trying to find the door. Here was a fresh reminder of why he didn’t care for children. He couldn’t read them, didn’t know what they wanted. He was stuck with his own experiences as a child to guide him, and those were rather…dark and unfortunate. 

“It’s okay,” Ed tried to be reassuring, but he could hear that his voice was rough, ugly. The Riddler’s voice. “I’m a friend of…” What was he supposed to call Oswald? Penguin? Mr. Cobblepot? Your dad? 

“Martin?” Zsasz’s voice was hollow, down the hall, and the boy immediately bolted for the door, his hands reaching for the man he couldn’t yet see. 

By the time Ed turned around, Zsasz had the boy in his arms, clinging to his neck. 

“It’s okay, Martin, you’re safe now,” he said softly, petting the boy’s hair. “Your father would like to see you.” 

***

Despite knowing that Oswald cared for the boy, Ed was still surprised by his reaction upon seeing him returned. Martin squirmed out of Zsasz’s hold and bounded over to the bed, climbing on top of it to hug Oswald carelessly, his arm almost snagging on his IV. Oswald didn't care about being jostled, about the IV being pulled on his hand. He hugged the boy tightly, grabbing his face, checking him for wounds. 

“Careful, Martin,” Zsasz called before Ed could. “He’s hurt. Be gentle.” 

The boy glanced back at Zsasz for a cursory moment before settling into the bed beside Oswald, pulling up the notepad around his neck. Ed realized suddenly that the boy hadn’t spoken a word since they picked him up. He chalked his silence up to residual fear. But it seemed like he didn’t speak at all. 

He passed the notepad over to Oswald, who read it and squeezed Martin into his side. “I missed you too, Martin.” 

The boy tore off the page and let it flutter to the floor, face up. Ed could read it from where he stood, far away from Oswald, Martin, and Zsasz. “I missed you, Papa,” it read in childish, untidy writing. 

“Ed,” Oswald’s voice pulled his attention from the little sheet of paper. “Apparently you have not been introduced to Martin.” 

Ed stepped forward, noticing how Martin flinched away from him as he did. 

“He’s still a little jumpy,” Zsasz supplied helpfully to Oswald’s questioning glance. “Ed had to force one of the guys to open the room Martin was in. So…” 

“You killed someone in front of Martin?” Oswald asked, his voice just dry enough that Ed couldn’t quite decipher his emotion. 

_Play it cool,_ the Riddler urged him. 

“It was a necessity,” Ed shrugged. 

“Martin, this is Edward Nygma,” Oswald directed to the boy, sparing Ed nothing more than raised eyebrows. “We were friends, once.” 

_Ouch._

“Once.” 

Martin offered Ed his hand, a precocious little smirk on his face. Ed shook it, his eyes on Oswald. 

“I’d like to think we _are_ friends,” Ed said, keenly aware that Martin and Zsasz were watching them both closely. 

“I guess we’ll see,” Oswald pulled the boy back to his side and dropped a kiss to the top of his head. “Won’t we?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald finally gets to talk to Ed alone, and Lee is a queen, as usual. A team is assembled.

It was several hours before Oswald managed to muster the strength to ask Zsasz to bring him Ed; Zsasz fixed him with his raised eyebrow stare that Oswald could easily read by now. He took his hand, squeezing it gently before releasing it. 

“Bring him to me, Victor. I’d like to speak with him.” Victor blinked slowly, his usual cool acquiescence, and turned toward the door. “Alone,” Oswald added. 

“Boss –”

Oswald waved off the unspoken protestations. “Wait outside the door if you must.” Victor gave a slight shake of his head that Oswald couldn’t read and slipped silently out the door, the door left open just a crack in his wake. It seemed the man would never learn how to close a door or knock. The familiar habit brought a smile to Oswald’s face. Knowing someone was comfort. 

“Nygma to see you, Boss,” Victor said, Ed following close behind him, his eyes fixed firmly on a spot just slightly to Oswald’s left. 

“Thank you, Victor, that will be all.”

Victor pursed his lips and glanced back at Ed for just a moment before closing the door. Having two men in the same room who betrayed Oswald provided him some abstract amusement. How paranoid both of them were of each other, while the person who deserved to be suspicious of them both trusted them implicitly. Surely there was a specific kind of irony for that. He hoped it wasn’t dramatic irony. 

Ed was still halfway turned toward the closed door, as if he expected Victor to come bursting back in. He was buttoned up all the way to his neck, his tie knot tight and unforgiving. He was as upright as Oswald had ever seen him, but everything that wasn’t undone in his clothes was in his eyes. “Come in, Ed,” Oswald prompted. As he stepped closer, he surveyed his old friend’s face more closely. “You are still Ed, aren’t you?” he asked. “Not –”

Ed shrugged, his eyes darting to a corner, where they lingered for a moment. Oswald followed his line of sight, as if expecting to see the Riddler there. There was nothing there, but still, Ed’s eyes seemed to be fixed on something tangible.

“Listen, I wanted to thank you for what you did,” Oswald’s voice pulled Ed’s gaze back to him. “I know I was…less than grateful initially, but I am –” he sighed, trying to find the right words. “I was worried for Martin. I should not have taken that out on you. I should have trusted you.” 

“Why would you trust me?” Ed said quietly. “We aren’t friends.” 

Oswald dropped his gaze to his lap, knowing when his own words were being parroted back to him. “I thought you said we were,” he hedged. 

Being friends with Ed was a dangerous game to play, far dangerous than simply being allies. Friendship meant vulnerability, it meant closeness. It meant forgiveness. After hearing Ed’s voice in his dreams for so long, forgiveness didn’t seem like something achievable. How could it be? 

“Doesn’t seem like you need any friends, Oswald,” he replied. 

Oswald furrowed his brows, his free hand pushing his hair out of his face, a mirthless laugh spilling out of his mouth without his permission. “Interesting.” 

“What is?” 

He worked his jaw, trying to hide the almost smile that threatened to take over his face. “Nothing, Ed. Nothing at all.” What another, different kind of irony that Ed would be acting this way now. How typical. Oswald had craved this fire, this attachment for so long, and now that he was sure he didn’t want it anymore, here it was.

Ed stared at him for a long while, trying to read him. Oswald allowed it; perhaps he would finally learn if Ed’s intelligence had returned completely after all. But it seemed he came up empty; he averted his eyes when he realized Oswald was looking back at him. 

“Thank you for what you did for Martin,” Oswald broke the silence, trying to steer the conversation back to less treacherous waters. “He is very dear to me.” 

“You never told me about him,” there was an underlying bitterness there, glaringly obvious. 

Oswald shrugged. “I never had the chance, did I? Besides, wouldn’t you have used him against me?” 

Ed’s jaw tightened, the exact answer Oswald predicted. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Ed said finally. “Besides, you have Zsasz to protect him now. He’s the safest kid in Gotham.” He practically spat the other man’s name, one of his hands rising to push his glasses up his nose, where they slid almost immediately back down to their previous place. 

Oswald raised an eyebrow. “Zsasz is very attached to Martin as well,” he pointed out.

“I’m sure that’s why he allowed Sofia to kidnap him,” Ed snapped. 

“He was manipulated by Sofia, same as me,” Oswald replied, determined to remain calm. “I cannot hold that against him now that he has returned to me and proven his loyalty.” 

“Returned to you,” Ed repeated under his breath. 

“Something you’d like to say?” Oswald finally asked. 

That seemed to be all the permission he needed; he took a step closer to Oswald’s bed, his eyes fixed intensely on his own. “Of all people, Zsasz?” 

Oswald smirked. “What’s wrong with Victor? He’s a murderer? A criminal? Pot, kettle, black.” Ed spluttered, trying to find the barb for a response, but Oswald pressed forward before he could speak. “My arrangement with Victor is none of your business.” 

“Neither was mine with Isabella, but –”

“So this is just equality, is it?” Oswald asked shrewdly. “Not jealousy?” 

Ed spluttered, retreating a step. “I have no idea what you mean –”

“Of course you don’t,” Oswald interrupted. “Edward Nygma loves to be the smartest man in the room until someone asks a question he doesn’t want to acknowledge.” 

“Oswald –”

“Look, as far as I’m concerned, I owe you a favor for what you did for me. You can come collect at any time. But if all of our conversations are going to end like this, I think we should consider going our separate ways.” 

***

“He is absolutely intolerable,” Lee could hear Ed’s voice before she saw his face, and even before he stormed into the room, she knew exactly who he was talking about. “Arrogant, ungrateful –”

“Sounds like that chit chat went well,” she acknowledged, pulling out a tea cup for Ed. “Probably just as well as I predicted.” 

“Don’t boast,” Ed snapped, reaching for the offered tea cup. “It’s unattractive.” 

“Don’t really care if you find me attractive, buddy,” she shrugged, pouring the tea. “Lemme guess, Penguin? 

“He’s –” Ed stumbled over which words to use, settling for a couple of crude hand gestures, “Zsasz.” 

Lee had to stifle a smirk. “You were terrible at charades, weren’t you?” she asked. 

He didn’t seem to hear her. “Zsasz? I mean, come on. Of all people?” 

“Zsasz has some appeal,” Lee acknowledged absently, ignoring the horrified look Ed gave her. “He’s calm, aloof, business-like. I’m sure, after you –”

“Could we not?” Ed interrupted. “I certainly do not want to be compared to Victor Zsasz.” 

“All I meant was that you shouldn’t read more into a situation than there is,” Lee amended. “Penguin said he loved you, right? So what are the chances that he fell in love so quickly again? No, I’m sure his –” she waved her hands around, mimicking Ed’s gestures, “with Zsasz is purely physical.” 

“That doesn’t make it better,” Ed growled over the dainty tea cup. 

Lee raised her eyebrows and said nothing.

“What?” Ed snapped. “What’s that face for?” 

“Nothing,” she said innocently. “I’m sure you’ll get there eventually. So, does Penguin have a plan to take down Sofia yet?”

Ed shrugged, looking despondently into his tea cup. 

“I’m going to take that as a…you never asked,” Lee prompted. “Too caught up in pestering your ex-boyfriend about his new one?” 

_“Lee Thompkins!”_

She shrugged at his scandalized tone. “You’re in my clinic, Nygma. This is my free speech zone.”

She was saved from his retort by a knock at the door. “We’re not open yet,” she called out, as if it wasn’t the middle of the afternoon. At Ed’s questioning glance, she added quietly, “I make my own hours.” 

“Lee, open the door.” 

She set her tea cup down and obliged, stepping aside so Jim could pass by her, disheveled and aggravated. “Captain Gordon, to what do I owe this…well.” 

“There was a breakout at Arkham Asylum last night,” Gordon said, his eyes on Ed. “So I guess you can imagine why I’m here.” 

“I can imagine all sorts of things, Jimbo,” Ed replied. “The reason for your detective skills leading you here? Not part of the list.” 

“Shut up, Nygma, I know you broke out Penguin,” Gordon snapped. “I’m not trying to take him back to Arkham. I need to talk to him.” 

“Penguin is mighty popular with the boys these days,” Lee pointed out. Ed rolled his eyes. 

“So he is here?” Gordon turned back to her. 

“Got pretty beat up in Arkham, so naturally he’s here,” Lee replied. “Detective work is spot on as usual, Jim.” 

Gordon ignored her sarcasm. “I need to see him,” he said, turning halfway to Ed. “We need to talk about Sofia.” 

Lee’s eyes met Ed’s around Jim. Ed rolled his eyes again and shrugged. 

“Okay,” Lee said. “I’ll take you to him.” 

***

“Captain Gordon,” Oswald’s voice was almost as cold as his eyes. “Come to take me to Arkham on another trumped up charge?” 

“I don’t know, Oswald, are you planning on blowing up another car that may or may not have a little boy in it?” Gordon asked, but his eyes were on the tubes coming out of Oswald’s arms, the pallor of his skin. 

“In due time, I’m sure,” Oswald waved him off. “I’m assuming, _old friend,_ that Sofia’s treachery has become apparent to you?” 

Ed, in the corner, bristled at the familiar term of endearment. 

“She used us both,” Gordon replied. “I need your help to take her down.” 

“There will be no take downs until Penguin is healed,” Lee piped up from beside Ed. “You’re going to have to wait.” 

“Waiting just means more opportunities for a good plan, right James?” Oswald smirked. 

“No umbrellas down throats this time,” Gordon answered with what could almost be called a smile. “We take her to the GCPD.” 

Lee, from the corner, took a step forward. “If you’re taking down Sofia, I want in.” 

Gordon, who had somehow managed to get to Oswald’s bedside without anyone noticing, turned back to her with a frown. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” 

“She’s threatening the Narrows, I have to protect them,” Lee protested. “If you’re taking her down, I’m either a part of it or you can nurse Penguin back to health yourself.” 

Oswald, from the bed, raised his eyebrows. “With all due respect, James, your ex-fiancée’s bedside manner is far more desirable than yours. Let her in.” 

Lee grinned. “Looks like we got ourselves a team.”


End file.
